Arthur Wolfswift The ground came up fast. Art's face hit first, then the rest of his body followed, flipping over itself and landing on its back. Art now lied on his back, looking up at the night sky, while his bike lay somewhere in the brush. He could hear a tire spinning and he hoped his bike wasn't broken. He held less hope for his nose. He tried to get back to his feet but his head rang out in a furious pain. He settled for a sitting position. “You alright grandpa?” asked a woman's voice from somewhere. “Took a hell of a tumble.” Art grabbed for his rifle, but couldn't find it. “Who's out there?” “No one to worry about. Got your gun though, don't know if I should be worried about you.” Art looked around and couldn't see anyone. “I have a busted nose and a twisted ankle. I assure you I'm harmless.” “Isn't everyone?” Art heard the voice get closer but didn't hear a single footstep. “Harmless people don't carry 'round guns this nice.” “Nice things are hard to come by nowadays. Might as well hold onto the ones you have.” “Ain't that the truth.” Again the voice came from a different location, but still from behind him. “Where'd you get the gun from?” she asked. Art put his hand to his forehead, his headache began to worsen, “It's kind of a 'going away' present.” “Somebody didn't want you to leave.” she sounded sarcastic. “Nobody gives away something this nice.” “It wasn't really given, but I figure I earned it.” Art didn't feel like answering any more questions. “Why'd you trip me if you're just going to ask me shit?” Now she sounded offended, “I didn't trip you, don't go accusing me of your own damn misfortunes.” “Well then who tripped me?” “You were speeding on a bike in the middle of the woods. At night. You were bound to hit something.” “And you just happened to be out here?” “You should be so lucky. What if you broke your neck and got paralyzed and just layed here 'til you died? That'd be a shitty way to go.” “But I didn't.” “But you could of.” the woman seemed to have stopped moving, but Art wasn't certain, she was quieter than a cat. “Where were you headed to anyways?” Art rubbed his forehead, his head still a mess. “I don't know.” “Where you late to 'I Don't Know'? You were going awfully fast.” “I mean-” Art looked all around. There was no one to be seen, “Where are you anyway?” “Uh-uh, you gotta answer my question first.” “I'm just looking for some friends.” “Judging from this gun, I'd suspect your friends are MPD.” Art let out a sigh, “I'd hardly call them friends, even when I did work for them.” “Retired?” “In theory.” The pain in Art's head started to subside, “I've learned that retired life is an awful lot like working life.” A woman emerged from the trees nearby. She was talk, dark, and wore a cloak that blended in with the woods around her. She carried with herself an air of confidence and Art's rifle. She threw his gun down at his feet. “Good thing you quit, don't think there's much to go back to though.” “What do you mean?” “MPD headquarters got blowed up.” Art was taken aback. “You could feel the explosion clear across the city.” Art was stunned. He spent most of his life in an around that building. To think it's just gone, he couldn't visualize it. “Do you know why? Or by who?” “Terrorist attack or jailbreak or something. Half the building's gone.” Art felt a pain in his stomach that stung worse than his nose. He didn't plan on going back, or at least he didn't think he did, but he had friends there. A few anyway. He felt strange for missing a place he never liked it in the first place. “Either way,” she continued, “you definitely don't want to go back to the city. The Curators and Keepers are at each others' throats too.” Art was speechless, “Not a good place to visit right now, huh?” “Why do you think I'm out her in the boonies? I'm a city girl, but I ain't living in that shit.” Art used his rifle to pull himself upright. When he stood on his ankle, he noticed it wasn't too painful. He started to walk towards his bike. “Thanks for the gun.” he said. “It's awful trusting of you to give it back to me though.” “I figure in order for someone to reach your age, they gotta be either ruthless, smart, or nice. You don't seem ruthless, you certainly ain't smart, so I'm betting you're nice.” A chuckle escape from Art's mouth and he realized he hadn't laughed in a few days. “I used to think I was nice.” “We've all done bad things, don't mean we're bad people.” Art picked up and inspected his bike. Was a bit dented in places, but it was still rideable. “So where you headed?” he asked. “I Dont' Know either. If you get there before me, look me up.” she walked over to Art and held out her hand. “Here,” she said and dropped a handful of bullets into his palm. “They're yours.” Art checked his rifle and, sure enough, it was empty. He laughed again. “Want to ride along with me?” asked Art. “I don't do friends.” said the woman as she walked away. “Neither do I, but that doesn't mean you can't have some.” The woman stopped and turned to him. Art could see her smile in the darkness. “Maybe one day, but not right now. Hope you find your friends.” and she disappeared into the woods. And again, Art was alone. He sat on his bike and began to pedal. He hurt, couldn't see well, and the bike was wobbly as hell, but it still worked, and it would take him wherever he wanted to go.
The ground came up fast. Art's face hit first, then the rest of his body followed, flipping over itself and landing on its back. Art now lied on his back, looking up at the night sky, while his bike lay somewhere in the brush. He could hear a tire spinning and he hoped his bike wasn't broken. He held less hope for his nose. He tried to get back to his feet but his head rang out in a furious pain. He settled for a sitting position.
“You alright grandpa?” asked a woman's voice from somewhere. “Took a hell of a tumble.”
Art grabbed for his rifle, but couldn't find it. “Who's out there?”
“No one to worry about. Got your gun though, don't know if I should be worried about you.”
Art looked around and couldn't see anyone. “I have a busted nose and a twisted ankle. I assure you I'm harmless.”
“Isn't everyone?” Art heard the voice get closer but didn't hear a single footstep. “Harmless people don't carry 'round guns this nice.”
“Nice things are hard to come by nowadays. Might as well hold onto the ones you have.”
“Ain't that the truth.” Again the voice came from a different location, but still from behind him. “Where'd you get the gun from?” she asked.
Art put his hand to his forehead, his headache began to worsen, “It's kind of a 'going away' present.”
“Somebody didn't want you to leave.” she sounded sarcastic. “Nobody gives away something this nice.”
“It wasn't really given, but I figure I earned it.” Art didn't feel like answering any more questions. “Why'd you trip me if you're just going to ask me shit?”
Now she sounded offended, “I didn't trip you, don't go accusing me of your own damn misfortunes.”
“Well then who tripped me?”
“You were speeding on a bike in the middle of the woods. At night. You were bound to hit something.”
“And you just happened to be out here?”
“You should be so lucky. What if you broke your neck and got paralyzed and just layed here 'til you died? That'd be a shitty way to go.”
“But I didn't.”
“But you could of.” the woman seemed to have stopped moving, but Art wasn't certain, she was quieter than a cat. “Where were you headed to anyways?”
Art rubbed his forehead, his head still a mess. “I don't know.”
“Where you late to 'I Don't Know'? You were going awfully fast.”
“I mean-” Art looked all around. There was no one to be seen, “Where are you anyway?”
“Uh-uh, you gotta answer my question first.”
“I'm just looking for some friends.”
“Judging from this gun, I'd suspect your friends are MPD.”
Art let out a sigh, “I'd hardly call them friends, even when I did work for them.”
“Retired?”
“In theory.” The pain in Art's head started to subside, “I've learned that retired life is an awful lot like working life.”
A woman emerged from the trees nearby. She was talk, dark, and wore a cloak that blended in with the woods around her. She carried with herself an air of confidence and Art's rifle. She threw his gun down at his feet. “Good thing you quit, don't think there's much to go back to though.”
“What do you mean?”
“MPD headquarters got blowed up.” Art was taken aback. “You could feel the explosion clear across the city.”
Art was stunned. He spent most of his life in an around that building. To think it's just gone, he couldn't visualize it. “Do you know why? Or by who?”
“Terrorist attack or jailbreak or something. Half the building's gone.” Art felt a pain in his stomach that stung worse than his nose. He didn't plan on going back, or at least he didn't think he did, but he had friends there. A few anyway. He felt strange for missing a place he never liked it in the first place. “Either way,” she continued, “you definitely don't want to go back to the city. The Curators and Keepers are at each others' throats too.”
Art was speechless, “Not a good place to visit right now, huh?”
“Why do you think I'm out her in the boonies? I'm a city girl, but I ain't living in that shit.”
Art used his rifle to pull himself upright. When he stood on his ankle, he noticed it wasn't too painful. He started to walk towards his bike. “Thanks for the gun.” he said. “It's awful trusting of you to give it back to me though.”
“I figure in order for someone to reach your age, they gotta be either ruthless, smart, or nice. You don't seem ruthless, you certainly ain't smart, so I'm betting you're nice.”
A chuckle escape from Art's mouth and he realized he hadn't laughed in a few days. “I used to think I was nice.”
“We've all done bad things, don't mean we're bad people.”
Art picked up and inspected his bike. Was a bit dented in places, but it was still rideable. “So where you headed?” he asked.
“I Dont' Know either. If you get there before me, look me up.” she walked over to Art and held out her hand. “Here,” she said and dropped a handful of bullets into his palm. “They're yours.” Art checked his rifle and, sure enough, it was empty. He laughed again.
“Want to ride along with me?” asked Art.
“I don't do friends.” said the woman as she walked away.
“Neither do I, but that doesn't mean you can't have some.”
The woman stopped and turned to him. Art could see her smile in the darkness. “Maybe one day, but not right now. Hope you find your friends.” and she disappeared into the woods.
And again, Art was alone. He sat on his bike and began to pedal. He hurt, couldn't see well, and the bike was wobbly as hell, but it still worked, and it would take him wherever he wanted to go.